She turned to Lucilla, a plea in her face. The uproar was tremendous—men yelling— dogs barking,—but above all was heard the stentorian voice of Jonathan, urging them on. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. He stood still, almost breathless. “I cut off his right hand pinky with his own rusty bolt cutter. That is why I have dyed my hair, that is why I have abandoned my rôle of ingenuèe and altered my whole style of dress.
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